


For Keeps

by foolishgames



Series: Care and Feeding [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 21:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolishgames/pseuds/foolishgames
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam’s human again.  But damned if he’s going to let a little thing like that stop him from cuddling his brother on a nightly basis.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Keeps

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to livejournal December 2006

The whole cuddling-Sam issue has become a lot more of an issue now that he's human again.  
Dean’s not really into cuddling.

But when a little black cat climbs into his lap and snuggles against his chest, it would take a stronger man than Dean Winchester to resist. Sam’s fur had been really, really soft and he was warm and rumbly and affectionate.

And now he’s human again, but still warm and rumbly and affectionate, only now, it could be weird.  
Dean still hasn’t gotten used to miles of sleep-warm skin against his side instead of a little bundle of fur, long hair tickling against his neck, Sam drooling slightly on his shoulder. He cracks his eyes open in the pre-dawn light. Sam shifts at his side, mumbles something inaudible, and pulls Dean closer with the arm around his waist. Dena’s fingers find their way, almost by instinct, into Sam’s hair, where they stroke and scratch and pull until Sam is making soft, pleased noises even in sleep and pressing his head into the touch. His other hand strokes Sam’s wrist, tucked against Dean’s ribs.

Dean sighs. Yeah, this isn’t weird at all.

 

Sam touches him a lot now.

Before the cat thing happened, Dean knew that Sam wanted it – wanted to be able to hug him or grab him or touch his shoulder for support or whatever. He just never did, because Dean was – and still is, he thinks – pretty good at giving off ‘Don’t touch me’ vibes. (He’s also pretty good at turning around and giving ‘Come fuck me now, you know you want to’ vibes in the next moment, but that’s not the issue here. Really.) Only, since being turned into a cat and tricking Dean into cuddling him shamelessly for the better part of four months, it’s like Sam thinks he’s got a right, or something, because suddenly he can’t keep his hands off Dean.

He’s standing in line at the gas station, waiting to pay, and Sam comes up behind him with five candy bars and a giant bottle of soda in one big hand, and slings the other arm around his shoulders, rubbing his face against the top of Dean’s head affectionately. They get a greasy eyeball from the guy behind the counter and amused isn’t-that-cute looks from the middle-aged woman perusing the selection of chips, and Dean shrugs him off and pays for the gas and the candy.

Or they’re in the local library of a small town, researching violent deaths, and Dean’s on the computer with Sam hovering behind him, reading over his shoulder, and he only notices that Sam is rubbing the back of Dean’s neck in a gentle massage when he stops.

And he misses it.

They’re eating lunch at some little diner in Kentucky, and Sam is sitting beside him in the booth instead of over the other side, and he’s eating off Dean’s plate and nudging his shoulder and grabbing his knee and messing with his hair until Dean’s grinding his teeth and ready to spit.

“Sam!” he hisses finally, shoving him hard.

Sam blinks. “What?”

“Stop touching me!” He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t meant to just blurt it out, but Sam’s hands all over him are just getting too much. “For Christ’s sake, can’t you keep your hands to yourself for five minutes?”

Sam doesn’t – quite – flinch. But he does flush, dull red spreading over his cheeks, and drops his eyes. “Sorry,” he mutters, edging away in the seat so he’s not pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with his brother anymore. “I didn’t realise – sorry.”

And Dean feels like a bastard, because that horrible, embarrassed apology? That’s not the confident, happy Sam that came after the cat thing. That’s from before, Sam grieving and edgy and unhappy, or earlier, Sammy who hero-worshipped his brother and crumbled a little at every harsh word, every little fight.

Sam sleeps in his own bed that night, on his side, facing away from Dean. Dean lies awake for hours, waiting for Sam to give in and cross the divide between the beds, to snuggle up against him warm and sleepy and safe. But he doesn’t, and Dean falls asleep alone and wakes up just after dawn, clutching the blankets around his shoulders and shivering.

It’s not even cold, but he’s gotten used to having another warm body there.

Sam’s twisted in the night, lying on his front, one arm flung out like he’s seeking something. Dean frowns.

Sam wakes up, later that morning, to the smell of coffee and Dean’s fingers twisting in his hair, seeking out that itchy, sensitive, so-good spot, and he purrs.

 

The licking, Dean decides, could be a problem. The licking has got to stop.

Sam is half asleep, curled up in a ball after Dean had gotten up to go to the bathroom. He returned and reached out to touch Sam’s face, and then Sam had grabbed his hand and licked his wrist.  
He’s holding him now, Dean awkwardly perched on the edge of the bed, his hand trapped – no, cradled – between both of Sam’s, and Sam is lapping at the dip between the knuckles of his middle and pointer finger, little, fond darts of his tongue like Dean’s a lollipop. Dean doesn’t even think Sam’s awake or aware of what he’s doing. His eyes are steadfastly closed, and he’s making the happy little murmurs he makes when Dean is stroking his hair as he’s right on the edge of sleep. The fact that Dean knows that noise and can immediately identify it is a problem that can be dealt with another time.

A time when he’s not being licked by his brother, not feeling weirdly caught by the intimacy of it. A time when he’s not wondering how else he could get Sam to make those noises, when he’s not considering sliding back into bed with him and just – letting Sam slide his tongue over Dean’s skin.  
(Sam used to lick him all the time when he was a cat, just like Dean used to give out cuddles like they were candy. Some kind of social grooming thing, Sam had said uncomfortably, when Dean asked him later, and poked him to end the conversation)

Clearly the cat-thing has broken his brain. His brother is licking him. It should be weird and gross and creepy and instead it’s just warm and tender and sweet. He should be freaking out, and instead he‘s transfixed.

What is creepy is that Dean is just letting Sam do this, all unawares. He’s taking advantage, and the minute that thought enters his head he pulls away. He firmly detaches his now-sticky hand from where Sam is really not holding it very tight at all and Sam makes a sad, lost noise and pulls his own hands close to his face, cupped over his mouth and nose.

Dean leaves him to sleep, and goes for coffee. He needs coffee for this.

 

“Does it bother you?” Sam asks.

Dean glances over, then back at the screen. “What?”

“When I – y’know.” Sam waves his hands expansively, then leans over and brushes his knuckles against the side of Dean’s neck where the collar of his shirt is stretched and loose. “I know you’re not really into the touchy stuff, but you seem okay. I was just wondering.”

Dean shrugs his shoulders and tries to hide the shiver the runs through him at Sam’s touch. “I’ll let you know if it bothers me,” he says. “Did you find that obit yet?”

Sam shrugs and shifts lower in his seat, kicking his legs out. Eight o’clock in the morning, this little local library is deserted but for the two of them and one dedicated high school student in the natural philosophy section. It doesn’t seem empty though, not with Sam sitting there looking like he owns the world.

Dean thinks it’s probably a carry-over from when he was a cat, like he suddenly figured out how to be confident. Not that Sam was shy or anything before, but there had been a tendency to stoop, to tuck his head down and pull his shoulders in and bunch up small, like he was trying to apologise for taking up so much space.

Now his personal space extends several feet past his body, spilling over into Dean’s. Now he stretches out as big as he can, spread out wide, demands attention. Like a cat, like he doesn’t have a care in the world, like he’s finally at home in his body, and Dean can’t. Stop. Staring. And he can’t hide the little flush of heat that sweeps through him whenever he sneaks a too-long peek at Sam sprawled out like a fucking invitation, whenever Sam grabs him and holds him for a little too long and breathes on him, warm and moist on bare skin.

Like his tongue against Dean’s hand, affectionate and gentle.

Dean’s fingers skitter on the keyboard, a random jumble of letters appearing in the search field. He hits the backspace key harder than necessary, ducking his head down to hide his reddening cheeks and shifts in his chair, uncomfortable.

“You okay?” Sam, curse his sharp observational skills. His brow is knitted in concern, and his long fingers play over the controls of the microfiche. 

Dean swallows and tries for casual. “Fine. Not all internet-savvy like some geekboys I could name, but getting there.”

Sam grins, and a dimple pops up in his cheek, and Dean’s stomach does a swooping dive. “You’re an old man now, Dean. Can’t keep up with the times.”

Dean throws a pen at him, which Sam ducks neatly, still grinning. For Dean, it’s like the sun has come out in this dingy little library, because Sam is smiling and happy and content and everything is okay in the world.

Dean shakes his head and turns back to the computer. He is so, so screwed.

 

The spirit is relatively easy to banish, and grave-digging goes quicker when there’s two of them working in tandem, but it’s still close to dawn by the time they arrive back at the motel, dirty and sore and exhausted. Sam calls dibs on first shower and disappears, while Dean slouches in a chair and waits, eyeing the rumpled bed longingly. He’d love nothing more than to just crash, but he knows he’ll regret it in the morning if he doesn’t get clean before he sleeps.

Instead he finds himself pondering over the second bed. They usually still get two beds when they book a room, and just use one for keeping stuff on – papers, weapons, dirty laundry, whatever. From the minute they enter the motel room, both duffels go on one bed, and the other one is ‘our bed’. He’s not sure when they made the transition, from ‘Sam’s bed, in which he doesn’t sleep because he is a clingy bastard, and Dean’s bed, which he is generous enough to share,’ to ‘Our bed, which we share, and that other flat, squishy surface, used for storing shit we don’t need right now.’ He thinks if he could pick that moment, the moment when everything changed, he’d know when this all got so messed up. Like if he knew when he started falling, he might be able to defy gravity.

The shower shuts off, and in an indecently short amount of time, Sam saunters out with only a towel between him and the world. Dean’s arm brushes against his bare chest as he stumbles past, and he could swear that Sam shivers a little at the contact.

His shower is short by necessity, washing all the appropriate bits on auto-pilot and trying not to tip over sideways. Sam is passed out and drooling by the time Dean gets out the main room, and he forces himself to stagger over to the other bed and root around until he comes up with some clean boxers to wear, because damned if he’s going to crawl naked into bed next to Sam with all the shit that’s been in his head in lately. Dean considers digging further, looking for a t-shirt, but can’t be bothered.

Instead, he hits the light switch and falls into bed, wriggling under the sheets and reaching out to curl his hand against Sam’s shoulder.

 

Bright light in his eyes is what wakes him, and he flails an arm over his face and groans at the realisation that they forgot to close the curtains. The afternoon sun is streaming in and lighting up the whole room, staining everything gold. Sam shifts and snuffles against the back of his neck, and Dean nearly groans again when he realises that they are, for want of a better word, spooning. And Dean is the little spoon.

Sam fingers, shifting and re-settling restlessly against his chest, brush over his nipple, and Dean gasps and twitches, then immediately tries to be still, despite Sam’s hands still moving over his bare skin. Sam shifts again behind him, pressing closer to Dean, and Dean closes his eyes and bites back another noise when he realises that Sam is at least half-hard against the small of his back.  
Sam breathing stills, stops at the apex, so he’s holding his breath, and then he blows it out, hot against the prickling hairs at the back of Dean’s neck. His palm settles firm and warm on the skin of Dean’s ribs, and his thumb brushes lightly over his nipple again. He’s definitely awake, and Dean lies still and waits to see what he’ll do.

“Dean.” The whisper is soft against his ear. It doesn’t seem to be a question, but Dean turns his head a little – yes, I’m awake too. “Dean,” Sam says again, and this time there is a question there, but Dean’s not quite sure what it is, and before he can formulate a reply, Sam seems to come to a decision.

And licks him.

Dean’s whole body seems to wake up and come alive as Sam trails his tongue, slow and lingering, on the strip of skin just beneath his ear. His fingers twist into the sheets, and he makes a helpless little half-whimpering noise when Sam finishes with a soft, sucking kiss just beneath his jaw. Within a moment, Dean is hard enough to drive nails, and he scrabbles desperately for Sam’s hand, draped over his body possessively.

But Sam’s pulling away, disengaging his body from Dean’s, retreating, and Dean wriggles around until he can see Sam’s face. It leaves him lying flat on his back, feeling oddly exposed and vulnerable, looking up into Sam’s eyes, but he has a firm grip on Sam’s wrist, and Sam isn’t going anywhere.

“Sam,” he says softly. Sam won’t meet his eyes, and his face is a dull, embarrassed red. He’s pulled away as far as he can, curled around himself like he’s trying to hide away. He looks miserable, and could Dean be any more whipped that all he wants to do is make that unhappy look go away?

“Sorry,” mutters Sam, twisting his arm gently, trying to free himself from Dean’s grasp. Dean tightens his grip. “Sorry, Dean, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean.”

“Sammy,” he says, pitching his voice low, seductive, and Sam looks at him, finally. He looks scared and embarrassed, and Dean curls up onto his side, slides a hand behind Sam’s neck and kisses him.

It’s brief and soft, close-mouthed with no tongue, just the dry press of lips on lips and the feel of Sam’s body relaxing under his hands. Dean thinks maybe there should be fireworks going off, triumphal music, something, but there is only Sam’s hand creeping out and resting flat on his chest, right over his pounding heart.

Dean keeps his eyes closed when he pulls away, rests his forehead against his brother’s and just breathes. “Yeah?” he asks softly. The afternoon light washes over them, warming his skin. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion.

Sam sighs, and it blows over Dean’s lips and makes him shiver. “Yeah,” Sam says, and there’s relief in his voice, and lust, and something that might be fear or might be something else. Dean doesn’t have time to analyse it, because then Sam is kissing him again and every single thought just kind of floats out of Dean’s head.

It’s awkward at first, a brand new key in an old worn lock. They’re kissing, and it’s good, but there’s a residual awkwardness, an unfamiliarity that has them tangling up, getting in each other’s way. Their teeth meet and scrape unpleasantly, their knees knock together, and Dean doesn’t think Sam actually brushed his teeth before bed last night, because he doesn’t taste all that great.

And yet.

He shifts and slides closer, sliding his hands under Sam’s worn t-shirt to stroke his back, where the skin is smooth and warm. Sam arches into the touch, pulling back a little from their kiss and letting his mouth fall open, slack and blissful. Dean licks at Sam’s lower lip and shifts his hand higher, pushing the t-shirt up.

But the angle is all wrong, and the way they’re lying, curled onto their sides like this, leaves their arms and legs getting in the way and obstructing their quest to get their hands on each other rather than facilitating it. Dean’s getting frustrated when Sam breaks away with a curse, rolling away from Dean and sitting on the side of the bed.

Dean’s heart hammers hard – what if Sam’s changed his mind? What if he’s realised what a huge mess this could become and is backing out now?

“This isn’t working,” Sam says decisively. He stands up, and turns to face the bed, where Dean is still lying, foolishly, arms still stretched out to where Sam was. He puts his hands on his hips and looks thoughtful. “Take off your shorts,” he says, and strips his own shirt over his head before Dean has time to protest. Sam drops the discarded shirt beside him and is in the process of reaching for his own boxers when he notices Dean hasn’t moved, is lying still and staring at him, flushed and open-mouthed. Sam is beautiful, and Dean has noticed that before, but it’s never struck him so hard as now, Sam standing there almost nude and every muscle lean and golden in reflected afternoon sunlight.

“I, uh,” says Dean, and swallows hard. “You sure?”

Sam smiles, a little curl of his mouth, almost shy, and wriggles out of his last remaining item of clothing. His freed erection – fucking beautiful as the rest of him – curves up towards his belly, drawing Dean’s gaze, and he unconsciously licks his lips, noticing the way it twitches when Sam sees that. Dean tries to pretend he’s not breathing faster, like he’s not nervous about this at all, like Sam hasn’t just stripped down and they’re not about to remove any semblance of normality they ever retained. “I’m sure,” says Sam, and he sounds it. Slurred and shaky, voice deepened and roughened with lust, but absolutely certain that this is where he wants to be.

Dean still hasn’t moved from his ridiculous position when Sam (naked. Naked Sam) crawls back onto the bed and pushes gently at his shoulder, moving him so he’s lying flat on his back. Sam kneels beside Dean (naked Sam, oh God, Sam naked on the bed with him) and puts his hands on Dean’s chest, rubbing slowly up and down, feeling the pounding of his heart and his erratic breathing, the heat of his body, and the slight shivers running through him. The calluses on Sam’s palms catch his nipples and Dean’s bites his lip as pleasure slips through him, quiet and sharp. “Are you sure?” asks Sam, hands wandering further south over his flat stomach, pressing firmly so as not to tickle the sensitive flesh.

Dean arches a little, hips coming off the bed. “Yeah,” he says without hesitation. “’m sure.”  
Sam’s smile is blinding, brighter than the sunlight streaming through the cheap lace curtains on the window. His hands go to Dean’s hips, dipping under the waistband of his shorts. “Lift up,” he murmurs, and Dean does immediately. Sam’s ridiculously long fingers brush his ass and curl over his hips, then they’re slipping down over his thighs and Sam’s eyes are intense as the cloth slides over his legs, down and away. Sam is kneeling at the foot of the bed, staring up the length of his body, one hand slowly rubbing Dean’s ankle. Dean squirms a little at the heat and intensity in Sam’s gaze, feeling oddly self-conscious and wishing Sam would get back up within reach, but Sam seems content to just sit and look at him. The look on his face suggests that Dean is an all-you-can-eat buffet and that Sam is fucking starving, but he still doesn’t move.

“Hey,” Dean finally says, and is surprised at how hoarse his voice is. “C’mere.” He pushes himself up into a sitting position, but Sam is already moving, crawling up between his legs. They meet halfway in a messy, sloppy kiss, Sam’s arms going around his back to hold him up in his awkward, half-sitting position, Dean reaching out and clutching at Sam’s hips, fingers slip-sliding over the smooth skin.

Sam towers over him like this, kneeling above him, and Dean’s not used to having to lean up to kiss somebody, or to the sensation of being overwhelmed, surrounded by broad shoulders and long arms and strength. Sam is manhandling him, slowly lowering him back down onto the pillows, nudging Dean’s knees apart to make room for himself between Dean’s thighs. Dean might wonder if that makes him the girl in this particular equation, but he can’t quite bring himself to care when Sam’s cock rubs against his inner thigh and Sam hisses and grits his teeth.

“Come on,” he says, reaching up and curling his hands into Sam’s hair, because Sam is still up on his knees, crouched over Dean, not quite touching except for the way his dick is painting wet streaks on Dean’s thigh and Dean’s own cock is barely brushing Sam’s belly. “Come on, it’s okay.”

Sam smiles a sort of sleepy, dazed smile and his elbows give out and he sort of falls forwards onto Dean’s face and oh, god, skin.

Sam’s lips brush his in the lightest of kisses, but Dean is too distracted kiss back, distracted by the warmth and weight of Sam rubbing against his chest, cradled between his legs and the shocking sensation of their naked dicks pressing together. On instinct, Dean moves, rocking up into the pressure and heat of Sam, and Sam makes a strangled noise and responds, thrusting back down, their cocks rubbing and catching, slippery and hot.

Dean arches his neck and yanks Sam’s head down by the grip he still has on that stupidly long hair – Sam has been threatening a ponytail for months now, but Dean is fucking grateful for the leverage – and doesn’t so much kiss him as try to devour him from the mouth downwards. Sam groans encouragement as his hips pick up a rhythm, shallow, desperate thrusts, all instinct and no art as he grinds down, messy and unpractised. Dean’s thighs fall further apart, opening himself up to Sam and curling a leg around the back of Sam’s thighs to give himself some room to manoeuvre.

They rock together like this, wet sounds of flesh on flesh and heavy breathing interspersed with soft, choked groans the only sounds in the bright, warm room. Dean feels like he’s floating, like everything else has faded except for Sam’s warmth and the slippery heat of their dicks rubbing together sending shocks of pleasure through him, building up in his balls and the base of his spine. He arches his head back and Sam dives for his neck, licking and sucking and making breathy little noises when Dean groans.

And then Sam is shifting back and up a little, and Dean nearly protests, but Sam is working a hand between their bodies and that can only be good, so he lets his head fall back and his hips keep on working.

Sam’s got big hands, fucking shovels, and Dean knows this. But it’s never struck him so hard, so intimately, as when Sam reaches between them and takes both of their dicks easily in one hand, pressing them together and working his hips. They both moan in unison when Sam squeezes gently, and the friction and heat is so good that Dean thinks he might pass out. He sees Sam, hovering over him, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open and wet, and his hands stroke over Sam sides, shaking, soothing, desperate.

“Come on,” whispers Sam, sounding broken and wrecked. “Come on, Dean. Fuck.”

“Trying,” he manages to quip past the spiralling pleasure, and Sam gasps out a not-amused laugh and squeezes right on the upstroke. Dean makes a strangled noise, and wraps both his legs around Sam’s hips and thrusts up hard, too far gone to care about dignity or his masculinity or anything but making Sam do that again.

Sam obliges, curling his hand tighter around them both and squeezing firmly as he rubs his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock. And just like that, Dean comes, splattering warm all over his own belly and Sam’s.

Sam just rides it out, stroking him until the last tremors fade away, and Dean bats at Sam’s hand when the touch starts to hurt from over-sensitisation. He feels wrung out, limp and boneless, and breathing is an effort, let alone moving, as Sam gently pulls free of the clasp of his legs and moves back a little. He’s content to just lie there, arms outflung and eyes closed. Sunlight spills across the bed, warming his skin as the post-coital warmth settles in, heating him all the way through.

But when Sam makes a soft noise, almost a whimper, and the familiar sound of flesh sliding on flesh become audible in a very familiar rhythm, he forces his eyes open. Sam’s kneeling between Dean’s spread legs, jerking himself in quick, desperate movements. His eyes are trained on Dean with a ferocious intensity, and Dean can only imagine the picture he himself must present – spread out, naked, and well-fucked.

When he sees Dean watching, Sam’s eyes fall shut and his movements become erratic, almost desperate, and Dean makes himself move. He sits up slowly and reaches out, curling his legs around so his heels brush Sam’s ass, and lets his hands slide up his brother’s thighs. “Hey,” he murmurs, and takes Sam’s wrist, stilling his movements and ignoring his whimper of protest. Sam falls forward until his forehead rests against Dean’s. There’s a still, quiet moment, broken only by Sam’s harsh breathing, and Dean smiles. “My turn,” he says in voice gone raw and wrecked, and Sam’s eyes fly open, only to slide closed when Dean takes him in hand.

Sam is bigger than him – wider certainly – and Dean tries not to be vaguely miffed about this as he strokes firmly. Sam makes a choked noise when Dean probes at his foreskin, and groans aloud when Dean’s free hand wanders down to cup and fondle his balls.

“Dean,” Sam manages to gasp. “Close – please-”

“Yeah,” whispers Dean, twisting his wrist and pressing fingers to the sensitive skin behind Sam’s balls. “Come on.”

And Sam does, throwing his head back and coming warm and wet over Dean’s hand, and it’s all Dean can do to watch and marvel as Sam goes to pieces for him.

For Dean, and he can’t quite get his head around the enormity of that thought – that this part of Sam could be his, that Sam could be so intensely vulnerable and beautiful and open for Dean. Sam’s flushed and golden and gorgeous, and Dean is glad, or thankful, or something that the first time they did this, it was in the daylight, no hiding in the dark. He’s glad he gets to see this, gets to see Sam lit up this way.

When Sam slumps against him, spent, he carefully shifts and leans backwards until he hits the pillows again, cradling Sam safe against his chest. He can feel their sticky, drying come between them, and knows that it will be uncomfortable. He can feel an Important Relationship Talk looming in the near future, and glumly knows that will be uncomfortable too.

But right now, this is good. His fingers slide into Sam’s hair, stroking gently as Sam’s breathing evens out. “Okay?” he asks softly, and feels Sam nod sleepily.

After a few more minutes of peaceful silence, Sam stretches, a full-body undulation on top of Dean that has his cock twitching, despite his very recent orgasm. “Fuck,” says Sam quietly, and levers himself up off Dean’s chest so he can look his brother in the eye. “Dean,” he begins, and Dean shakes his head.

“Later, dude. We can talk later.” He doesn’t want to have this conversation right now, with all its implications. He doesn’t like the word ‘afterglow’, and he hates ‘cuddling’, but really right now he wants both. He just wants to lie here with Sam and be close and smell himself all over his brother. 

Sam frowns, and Dean grabs his wrist and yanks him down so he’s tucked under Dean’s arm. Sam’s stiff at first, his body like a plank, but Dean can feel him unwinding with familiarity of the position. They’ve been sleeping like this for months now, and Sam’s arm creeps over his waist and he sighs in surrender. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

The slight twist of fear in Dean’s stomach is greatly alleviated when Sam turns his head and kisses chest, soft and wet. Then Sam settles in with a sigh, only his fingers moving, drawing little pictures over Dean’s ribs. Dean strokes Sam’s hair and they watch the pattern the sunlight makes on the walls.

 

The sun is setting by the time hunger drives them out of bed. Neither of them really sleeps, but they both pretend for a few hours, lying quietly tangled up together and listening to themselves breathing.  
When Sam’s stomach rumbles too loud to be ignored they get up. Dean has first shower, and makes it quicker than usual, and when he comes back out to the main room, Sam is still naked, perched on the end of the bed looking thoughtful. Dean avoids his eyes, but he can feel Sam’s gaze boring into him. “Hurry up, dude,” he says gruffly. “I’m starving.” He pulls the towel more firmly about his waist and begins to root through the pile of clothes on the other bed in search of something not-filthy to wear, and hears the shower start up behind him, though the bathroom door is still open.

It gives him pause. Growing up in a series of very small apartments and motel rooms, the Winchester boys had developed a unique set of etiquette rules regarding personal space and privacy. One of the most important ones was that if you wanted privacy, you went into the bathroom and shut the door, and nobody would come in. They might bang until the wood splintered or stand outside yelling a crude commentary on what their brother was likely to be doing, yes, but didn’t open the door and go inside. If the door was open, feel free. Things like pissing and brushing teeth and squeezing zits and getting their hair cut took place side-by side, with no boundaries at all, but showering and masturbating were strictly closed-door activities.

Any way, Sam leaving the door open while he’s in the shower, naked and soaking wet and surrounded by clouds of steam? That’s a fucking invitation, and Dean’s breath catches at the implications. He’s frozen in place for a minute, clutching a pair of jeans to his chest, before he manages to force air back into his lungs and move again.

It seems Sam’s already made some decisions about where he wants this all to lead, and when Dean thinks about it, he can’t find many reasons to protest. He wants Sam. He wants to make him smile, wants to make him come, wants to spread him out on the bed and find every inch of him with hands and mouth and tongue. He wants – and he scowls at this incredibly girly thought as he yanks his jeans on, not bothering with underwear – to be close to Sam, as close as he can get.

Sam’s towelling his hair as he walks out of the bathroom, and he shoots Dean a searching look, like he’s asking for something. “You ready?” Dean asks, lacing his boots. He pats at his pockets and grabs his keys off the nightstand as Sam stuffs his oversized feet into tennis shoes, and Dean locks the door on the way out.

It’s a short walk to the diner, through the cool evening air, and Sam sticks close beside him, their shoulders brushing together at every step. They remain silent as they take their seat, break it to order their food, then lapse back into the awkwardness until it arrives.

Dean’s poking half-heartedly at his fries when he feels something stroking his ankle. He looks up at Sam, who gaze is focussed on his plate. He’s flushed, biting his lip and looking uncertain, and his foot is rubbing Dean’s calf.

“So.” Dean breaks the silence first, and Sam’s foot falls away. He misses it immediately.

“So,” says Sam. “We should. Talk.”

Dean wrinkles his nose. “I guess. Are you going to want flowers now?” He can’t help the crack, but regrets it when he sees Sam flinch a little, shrink in on himself. “Hey, now. Don’t do that,” Dean says, more gently. “It’s okay.”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s okay,” he says uncertainly, “if you don’t want to. Again.”

Dean starts with surprise, and reaches out to brush his fingertips over Sam’s knuckles, where his hand is clenched around his fork. He want to reassure Sam, to tell him that he wants it as much as Sam does, but what comes out is “Is it? Okay, I mean? If I say no, not again?”

Sam’s hand trembles and he ducks his head. His hair falls in his eyes and he takes two deep breaths. “No,” he says in a low voice. “I want this. It would have been okay before, but I can’t have this now,” his hand flips over and captures Dean’s, “and then give it up.”

Dean strokes Sam’s wrist. “I want this too,” he confesses, and is surprised how easy it comes out, how natural and good it sounds. “For a while now.”

Sam’s head comes up, surprise warring with joy and suspicion on his face. “Since when?” he demands, and Dean tries to fight down a blush.

“Since you were a cat,” he replies, and Sam laughs, bright and joyful, drawing the attention of the other patrons. “It’s just, I got used to it. Being able to touch you without it being weird or wrong. And then you were human and you didn’t stop, and it didn’t feel wrong, it felt.” He stops there, but he sees Sam nodding, already filling in the end of that sentence for himself: it felt right, it felt good, to be able to touch without guilt, knowing Sam wouldn’t shake him off or tell him no.

Dean shrugs and coughs. “Anyway. I, uh. I think we could.” He waves his free hand around, trying to find a way to verbalise what he wants.

“We could do this?’ says Sam softly. “For real?” His face is lit up again, shining with hope.

Dean squeezes his hand gently. “For real,” he says firmly, and basks in the glow.


End file.
